Azure Conspiracy
by Levitated Gravy
Summary: In a single moment, Whispering Rock is turned into a wasteland unsuitable for human life. But it was no accident, and as one forgotten Cadet is about to find out, there's something evil brewing there, something that could destroy humanity as we know it...
1. Left Behind

Author's Note: My first fanfic. Please, Dear God, don't let it suck. (takes deep breath) Well, this is the most confusing first chapter ever, I'm sorry. It gets better and easier to understand, I promise. I'm sorry if this seems weird. I tried my best.

Disclaimer: Why do I even need to say I don't own it? I'm not even old enough to drive; how am I supposed to be owner of an ultra cool game like this? You people need therapy. I own two things; my OC and my coffee.

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Blue light filtered through the windows of the Main Lodge.

The sunlight itself was not blue. The windows were not blue tinged. The sky was overcast. To anyone else it was not blue. If there had been anyone else there, they would not have called it blue. If there had been someone to correct him, inform him that colors other than blue had names, he wouldn't have called it blue.

He wasn't color exactly colorblind, per se.

Everything was just blue.

He noted that the fire had burned itself out and groaned. One more thing to get today, once he went out. Not that he minded, really. It was something to do, at least, and it was an excuse to stay out this rickety shelter. Standing up, he noted the creak of the floorboards under his booted feet and frowned. This was why he didn't like sleeping anywhere except in the corners of the building, where the floor couldn't break under him. It never felt safe to be in here, although this was the only place where the bears couldn't get him when he was asleep.

He hated being alone.

He wished someone had stayed with him.

More than that, he wished he could get past that infernal shield that trapped him here.

It was blue to him, of course, just as everything else was. But before he started seeing everything as blue, it had still been blue. It was thick and blocked the rest of the world from view. He could throw himself against it and not dent it. No psi-blast could make it yield. It was hard in that way. He'd done everything he could to get past it. Yet it was so soft that if he did throw himself against it, it merely jiggled and he would slide to the ground, uninjured. It was soft to the touch.

It also trapped him here.

He recalled a time before it was up. There was something else out there, people, buildings, forests… and other things he barely recalled. Then light from the sky had struck the purple rock that sat by the campfire area. He remembered panic. Cries of dismay. Evacuation.

Gas.

Purple gas, everywhere, fires of green, and it was hard to breathe. The purple engulfed everything, spreading so rapidly he couldn't outrun it. He got so tired trying to run away. He couldn't see through the purple. His legs folded beneath him. The burning in his legs kept him awake for what seemed like an eternity before sleep took him. When he woke up, the shield was there, and everyone else was gone.

Then he began to see in blue.

A crashing noise startled him. The boy realized he'd been reminiscing and he rolled his eyes at his foolishness. Directing his attention to the direction of the noise, he silently padded towards it. If someone had been present to watch him, they would have noted he walked on his tip toes. It was not for stealth. Ever since the gas had lulled him to sleep that faithful day, he could not walk normally.

Faint breathing reached his ears. Instantly his hand went to his head. He knew it was not a person. It was a cougar, probably insane. Everything went insane here. Everything was messed up. To him, it's blue fur glistened like stars as it turned towards him. It was totally blind. He saw it in the too-pale blue eyes that did not move as they should. He shot it through the head and examined the corpse closely.

It would never do for food. Its eyes were bloodshot and it radiated a smell so sweet it sickened him. He blasted the thing repeatedly until it was several feet outside and then exited himself.

It was a glorious day. The sun was shining brightly through the shield. (Why the top of the shield was clear was unknown to him, but he really didn't care.) The air was cool as he walked down the well-worn path to the parking lot. The ground was coated with faintly glowing powder that swirled in the air after he disturbed it. Each step left a trail all its own. He didn't care. Today was the day.

Today was his birthday.

He was treating himself by blasting all the creatures by the GPC into a fearful submission, then trying to open the hatch in one of the pods. He knew there was something beyond the hatch, if it would only open for him. Many a day he'd pulled at the small, square rising of fabric. His hands ached all day afterward, which was why he did not attempt this very often anymore. When he was younger, when the gas hadn't even formed powder yet, he came there often to try and open it. Whatever lay beyond was something amazing, something important, and he needed it.

Time had dulled his memories.

He knew whatever it was could help him. But he had accepted trying to open it almost as a hobby, not something he could ever achieve. It was a pastime. Nothing more. There was no hope of it moving, ever.

Imagine his surprise when it opened after barely a minute of pulling at it.

The force of it made him stumble forward. He fell down and landed on his back. Pain shot through him. He made no sound, merely waiting for the pain to subside. When one lives alone for five years, each noise sounds louder than in necessary. His own voice sounded so loud to him that he rarely spoke anymore, except at night when he needed reassurance he still could speak and that his nightmares in which he was mute were not real.

After a moment he got up and tip toed down the stairs.

There was no powder on the floor. There was only a faint smell of gas down here. It reminded him of times long ago, before the lightning. Shaking off any nostalgia that threatened to engulf him, he glanced around. A large machine stood before him, whirring faintly as different parts of it turned. It was shaped like a bulb, standing taller than he was and dark in color. Of course, it too was blue to him…

In the center of many layers of slowly turning mechanical rings, there was a bright blue core. It glowed, not in the way the powder did, but in a way that seemed natural. He held out a hand to it, keeping his fingers four inches away at all times. Faint heat radiated from it, but not enough to really warm his fingers. He pressed one finger against the metal, experimentally. It was cooler than the heat. That meant the machine wasn't hot enough to burn him, he rationalized.

So he took a step towards it.

What happened next was extremely unfortunate for him. His foot slipped on an old, moldy book and spun him around. He caught his footing facing away from the machine. Alarmed, he took a step back from the paper, and his head connected with the warm, blue core of the mechanism behind him. He tried to pull away, but found himself immobile.

Then the world seemed to grow distant…


	2. The Mental World's Torment

Author's Note: The plot's not moving as fast as I'd like, but I really do like how this chapter came out – it was typed out exactly as I saw it in my head and how I saw it happening. I'm sorry if the plot development is slow. I'm also sorry if my OC comes across as a Mary Sue (I don't like the term Gary Stu, so I use MS for both genders). Partially, this chapter exists because I can't integrate a background story to save my life, and it also exists because I had detention and needed something to do. It's my first story, cut me some slack here…. Speaking of which, let me thank those of you who reviewed and made my days happy.

To Carcaohtar: Thanks. More people than you care to know have accused me of stealing other people's work, because apparently the world thinks 11 year olds can't write worth crap. Your review was a breath of fresh air when I needed it most. (At this point, I'd hug you, but I'm pretty sure hugging the computer screen doesn't have the same effect.)

To Zankira: Thanks, to be honest I wasn't sure if this should even be in the mystery section, because I've never written mystery and, well, I'm not sure how mysterious I can keep this.

To WarningShot: Aw, thanks. When I rule the world, I'll make you psychic.

I'm gonna shut up now and let you read my crap- uh, writing.

Disclaimer: I own an OC, his parents, coffee, and a lava lamp. That's it. Nothing else.

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He fell flat on his face.

This was not due to clumsiness, as one might assume. But he felt as if he had blinked and been thrown to the ground. The sudden impact made him woozy. He did a lot of running in his life, but little jumping. Jumping was not safe at Whispering Rock, where there were psitanium boulders lurking beneath the surface, ready to turn into a geyser of purple (blue to him) gas if he took a misstep.

That, and he could not stand on the flats of his feet.

A few months after the lightning struck, he began to walk on his tip toes. While it added two inches onto his height and helped him be silent in such a dangerous place, he soon found that it was hard to balance otherwise. This was a horrible disadvantage and advantage at the same time. Take this landing, for instance. Any normal human being would have stumbled and caught themself immediately. But he couldn't, or the pain would make it impossible to walk for several hours.

With that undignified landing done, he slowly raised himself to his hands and knees. His fingers drummed against the surface of the ground.

The ground that was somehow not connected to anything.

He stood up, a look of wonder on his face. For so many years, he'd been in one place, alone, and now here he was, in a new world. He knew he wasn't dreaming, for he still saw everything as blue and in his dreams this place would have color. But the doors, the many thousands hovering everywhere, were wonderful even without color. All of them floated out of reach, dim lamp-like fixtures lighting them up. The door-patterned walkway beneath him was a single, endless line that led to a dead end.

And at the end of that dead end lay a blue door.

He tapped the ground experimentally. It seemed solid enough. Cautiously, he took a few steps forward. After a moment he began to walk. After ten minutes it became clear he wasn't getting anywhere, and he had to stop to rest his aching legs.

Walking on tip toes constantly shortens vital muscles in the legs. Psitanium or no, the human body cannot take the strain placed on the front muscles for too long. In short, his feet quickly began to ache. The backs of his legs burned and taunted his desire for progress. After a moment or two, he got back up. There was nothing for him to do now but try again.

At this point he saw people coming towards him.

Perhaps if he were smarter he'd have known there was something wrong. However, just because he was psychic, didn't mean he was situationally aware. Let us also consider that, having been isolated since the age of six, he was emotionally stunted – no interaction with other humans means no maturity. Therefore, even though it was stupid and foolish, he waved to them. He'd missed people so much. Finally, someone to talk to, someone who had fully formed thoughts, someone who-

Who were taking aim at him.

He realized too late his mistake and, not having invisibility or levitation powers, he froze, at a loss for what to do. He could have blasted them, had he been thinking clearly. All he could focus on was the guns. The cheap, fake looking (not that he would know) guns and the trench coats. These were nothing like the people he remembered. It was too much information for him to handle.

He didn't even react when one of them shot at him. The cork whistled past and fell into the endless oblivion. They marched towards him with glowing eyes.

Finally, he managed to say, "H-hello?"

It was pitiful. It was also the last thing he managed to say before one of them aimed a successful shot at his lower chest.

A normal person wouldn't have moved. His bad legs betrayed him and he stumbled backwards, freefalling through the endless aqua air. There was no scream, as one might expect. Just fear of the landing, because no one in his family had ever been able to levitate and with the psitanium screwing up his mind, there was no way he was going to learn it now.

If he had known any curse words, he'd have been saying all of them at this moment.

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"Curses," a monotone, male voice said. He turned to his identical companions. "You should not have shot. The Wildflower wants all intruders alive."

"I am sorry," an identical voice replied, "I will bring the report to the Wildflower."

"Yes, you should do that," the third droned, "And we shall polish our guns, for we are harmless hunters here to hunt. Hunters do that." He began to play air guitar on his gun.

No one thought this was odd.

Then again, if one looked into their eyes, their faces, it was clear they did not think. As one of them left, marching in a robotic way, the path shimmered and appeared to expand. The new part of the path led to a white door that had many lights surrounding it. All were burnt out, and the door itself was in disrepair; it needed paint and a new knob.

Nonetheless, it opened silently, without command, and the man who did not think entered without batting an eyelid at the strangeness of it all.

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Amazingly, this landing wasn't painful.

Oh, it was still shocking. Like the last one, it took the breath out of his lungs. Glancing around at his new surroundings almost warily, he again saw doors. But these doors were not out of reach. All were open to him, forming an extremely close-knit circle around him. He was reminded of a cul-de-sac. Each door was the same to him, though, and that was scary within itself.

For a long time he sat there, hugging his knees to his chest, unwilling to move. The last time he went towards a door, he'd been fired at. What if the same thing happened this time? What if he fell again, and this time there was no landing? He debated long and hard with himself before finally standing up. He took a deep breath. He hadn't been able to breath through his nose since the lightning, but deep breaths through the mouth can be relaxing as well.

He had to go through a door. It was the only way he'd ever find someone to help him get out of here. Even as he realized this and stepped forward, however, his hands shook and his legs trembled.

He stuffed his hands into his hoodie's pockets and braced his legs for the walk ahead. There was no way he could get back to his original platform now, and that was that. So even if he wanted to back out, he didn't have a choice. The knowledge embittered him. No choice. He hadn't had a choice in being stuck, in being mutated, and now he was being forced to pick a door at random.

How appropriate that it was Monday.

_Crunch!_

Immediately his foot moved back from whatever he'd just stepped on. The sound triggered an old startle reflex within him. Backing up several feet, he tilted himself forward to look at it closely. He didn't know what he expected here, but it was certainly not this.

Blue-flame patterned fabric lay at his feet in a bundle. Inside, there was something, apparently something breakable. He wished he were telekinetic. But he wasn't, so he knelt beside it and reached out his hand. The silence was deafening.

A large, bone-thin claw sprouted from the ground and grabbed his wrist.

Its touch burned his fingers, for his gloves were fingerless. As it was, what skin the glove did cover was still getting too hot for comfort. Warmth exploded at the back of his neck and he blasted the hand repeatedly. It did not release him.

Instead, it hissed his mother's name.

"Cember…"

He gasped. What was this thing? How did it know his mom? He decided he didn't care and turned on his heels, thrusting forward as hard as he could. Panic, pure and unthinking, obliterated his thoughts. Like an animal, he kicked and failed and struggled to move forward, even just an inch, away from this horrible nightmare that whispered his mother's name. Some skin was torn from his wrist and his fingers were scratched harshly as the thing's grip finally loosened, then receded altogether.

Once it was gone, the sheer momentum of the release and his force threw him forward, tumbling through a door.

He didn't notice, because a few tears were sliding down his cheeks. Damm the cheesiness, he missed his mother. What was she like now? Did she still sing like before? He closed his eyes, lost in a wave of memories. That claw became the scariest thing to him then. It brought pain and memories, memories of songs best left forgotten… It seemed every year she found new music to sing, new styles to try. That claw marred her name, ruined it, actually, hissing the word like a sin. She was sinless. Overworked, overprotective sometimes, and overly calm, but no matter what all her performances had pyrotechnic displays that made him forget his troubles.

And no matter what, she found time to tuck him into bed and sing him a lullaby.

That horrible, nightmarish creature had just shot him through the heart.

Oh, he missed his father, too. His tall, heavy set father with the serious look who always made time to play basketball on weekends. But his mother made time every day, every waking moment, for him. There was no time she ever raised her voice at him, no time she ever frowned, no time she did not hang on his every word. Every bad day was good if she was there. She took him outside once, when he was four, and talked for an hour about the shades of silver in the clouds and how wonderful cloudy days were. She taught him everything he knew about everything. They shared so many likes, so many dislikes.

He missed her so much it burned in his chest each time he thought of her. He thought of everything she'd said to him, from silly things like, "Apologize to the floor, that was mean!" to things like, "If you give up, your life sucks from then on."

He landed perfectly this time, eyes closed and fists clenched.

It was now settled. He was not giving up. He was getting out of here, out of Whispering Rock; he was going home if it killed him.

And so help him God, if he ever saw that claw again he was going to beat the crap out of it.


	3. The Stage and the Muse

Author's Note: My mom died two days after I posted the last chapter. My life is in ruins. But I'm gonna try and keep going. Here's Chapter 3, and I pray to God my OC is not a Sue even though the story focuses on him way more than it should….

I don't own anything. I really wish I did, but I don't, and with therapy I may recover.

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All the world was a stage. No, really, it was.

And it was broken.

He couldn't explain how or why it was broken. But there was no light save one beam of light that flickered, nearly dying, far above. There were actors and actresses, laying as if asleep in a circle around the end of the spotlight. Beyond that, dimness lay. Not darkness, but a simple, dimly lit shell of what was once a mighty theater.

Each step was loud, ringing in his ears. There was no sound save the quietest breathing of the actors, whose vibrant flower costumes had been preserved perfectly though they themselves looked horrible. For a moment he paused, wrestling with disgust at what appeared to be blood on some of them. But it had been so long since he'd seen someone, a real person…

Kneeling down is extremely hard when you can't use the back muscles of your legs, but after a minute he managed. The flower-actress was motionless. He looked, soaking in the image. She looked as if she had some sort of head wound, but other than that was perfectly fine. A sense of dread settled over him. What could have done this? Who had moved them here? They could not have fallen in formation!

_SNAP!_

The sound made him jump, which, with his bad legs, sent him a rush of searing pain that made spots swim at the corners of his vision. This was all that was needed; the next thing he knew he had been knocked over and into some sort of wall…

…Only it was not a wall, it was a stage background. He reached out a hand to touch it. The paint came peeling off instantly. A thick layer of dust was left on his fingers. He blinked, dazed, and turned his focus to the spotlight. Something stood there, but he could just make it out. It was like looking at something through a fog. It was big, but an exact height was not distinguishable from his current half-upside down, belly up position. It's color, of course, was blue, yet this wasn't a normal blue. It was an off color, dark with ripples of light. A memory of looking at sunlight hit the bottom of a swimming pool came to mind.

There it stood, not moving, just sitting, waiting for him.

His heart was slamming into his chest with illogical fear and he dared not move for what seemed an eternity. Finally, when he regained the ability to breathe properly, he eased himself into a sitting position. He couldn't tell if it was looking at him or not. He knew it had long legs and huge claws, but where the face was puzzled him. Unnerved in every sense of the word, he stood, testing whether or not it would chase after him.

It did not. So he padded across the floor, each step slow, eyes wide. One hand was on the wall, the other at his forehead for whatever good it would do. For the life of him, he couldn't fire a decent psi blast right now, and he knew it. He knew it and it scared him. He stumbled twice before finally getting around the corner of the scenery.

Backstage, there was no light save one dim, cracked, and dying bulb positioned above an entrance to a hallway. It took him several moments to get up the stairs, stumbling and cursing every loud sound (silently, of course) and wishing his legs would work, just this once, because there was a monster – an actual _monster!_ – in the other room. Was this what it was like to have a panic attack? In any case, the dust that coated the floor muffled his footsteps, making the sounds distant. This would have been more calming were it not for the soft sobbing coming from the end of the hallway.

Worried, he entered, only to find some sort of glowing… thing… flung at him.

The thing was glowing. Not just its eyes, but every inch of it. The glow was not faded or flickering like all else was here. It glowed firmly and without fail. He backed up a few feet, trying to regain balance before finally falling into a chair. Whoever or whatever it was detached itself from his shoulder and continued to sob, loudly.

This would have been an ideal point to ask the sobbing, glowing thing if it was okay, but he really didn't care. His feet hurt.

No worries. The glowing thing was more than willing to talk for two.

"It's so terrible! So awful, god awfully atrocious!" it wailed in a deep, Brooklyn accented voice, throwing up an arm dramatically. "Oh, how I prayed for death, cold, icy death-"

"Do you have a footrest?"

"Over in the corner. OH, WOE IS ME! The theater has fallen and I have fallen into despair- what are you doing? Are you sleeping?"

He blushed, caught in the act. "I'm tired."

"TIRED? We get invaded by invisible monsters from beyond, shut down, and left in ruins, unable to leave our spots, and you're TIRED?!" the thing shrilled angrily. "Do you have any idea what it's like living in one place for years and years? With no escape? There's no bathroom in here!"

Silence followed while he sat up, trying to look interested and not at all sleepy. Really he was just confused. That thing hadn't been invisible. Sure, it was hard to see, but not invisible. And oh, he knew what it was like to be trapped. But… he had a bathroom.

"You have no idea what it was like! Pianos and lobsters and even dominos! Flying around like they owned the place! Explosions – the horror! – and voices everywhere and then…"

"Then what?"

The thing looked him straight in the eye. "You came."


End file.
